No it’s not me, but I feel like her. I pray Kerry prevails.
Went out and did karaoke in Hoboken last night, what a waste of time. The sound system was the worst I ever heard and there were more psychos in there than in all of Manhattan AND it was smokey to make matters even more unbearable.
I bought a wicked funny “Thank you” card to send Dr. Lowenstein for saving my life the other drunken night. It is a cartoon of a man’s naked ass (pants down around knees) but there is green grass growing out of his butt cheeks. You open it and it says “MUCHO GRASSY ASS” 
I figure, since I was too wasted/steamin’/pissed/drunk/fucked up/mingin’ to give them my address, hence I was cared for free of charge, the right thing to do is to say Thank You (good karma) AND, since the card is a drawing of someone with their pants down around their knees, it would help them remember me.
Sept 19th I will go to massage Alice Cooper and band in NJ. Alice is NOT a party guy. He goes to bed early and plays golf religiously. 
That is Alice (er, Vincent) and I a couple years ago in Berlin. The look on my face is me trying to contain my smirk. I used to listen to Alice Cooper everyday when I was in the 8th and 9th grade (along with the Stones) and my dad dragged me to see Alice in concert many times in my early teens, so I was beside myself. He is such a smart, polite guy. I adore him. These are the notes I wrote about my run in with Alice Cooper and band, which will go in my book when if finally comes out here in North America:
It wasn’t even two weeks after the Lynyrd Skynyrd show that Alice Cooper came to town. I was freaking out! I immediately called the venue to see if anyone just happened to need a massage.
“Oooo, psychedelic!” the band’s manager said. “But I bet you don’t give the kind of massages my band wants.” He was talking to me like I’m some innocent little kid or somebody’s Mom. Which I guess I am – ha ha. Ahem. Well, at least he’s not assuming the other thing, like a lot of people do, that I’m offering anything but a legitimate therapeutic massage.
Whatever. The buck is not going to stop there. Meeting a childhood hero, whether it’s by invitation or by scamming your way in, is a matter of groupie honor.
I called my friend Iris, one of the Twins, the two sisters who promote or manage tours for every major act. She was working as Alice’s tour manager, and I got her to put me on the guest list. Meaning free admission and some level of access to backstage and the band. When I arrived at the concert hall, I called Iris again on my cell phone. All business.
“I’m here,” I told her. “What’s the deal?”
“You’re on the guest list for ‘After-Show’ passes,” she said.
Not what I wanted to hear. “After-Show!” I said. “So I’m like on the bottom of the food chain of the frickin’ backstage passes now?”
“Dot,” Iris explained. “You’ve got to know something about Alice Cooper. Alice does not see to anybody before the show. He stays on the bus, and no one talks to him.”
You can’t have everything, I figure, so at least I’ll enjoy the show. I go out into the audience with my lovely Finnish friend and assistant, Satu, but we can’t see anything. So we go up to the second level, this broad balcony over the back part of the room. But it isn’t much better. The place was packed, and there was just no way we were going to see over the taller people.
Way up top there’s actually a third level, but you have to have a special pass to get into it. An exclusive, “friends of” section. Turning on the charm that has won over the security teams of a thousand bands, I asked if it would be possible for us to maybe go up there. The woman at the entrance just said “Nein” without even looking at me, but then the guy behind her waved us through. It certainly doesn’t hurt that people know my face in Germany.
It took me the first couple of songs to get warmed up. Then Alice and the band started playing the songs I knew from when I was a kid – “I’m Eighteen,” “School’s Out” and “Only Women Bleed” – and then I was just going mental. I thought, okay I’m going to let the Beavis and Butthead in me come right out. And I started bangin’ my head and dancing around.
At some point, Satu said she thought they were shining the spotlight up at us. I didn’t even pay attention, but I’ve been around enough to know what the lighting guys and the sound guys are doing at every concert. They’re bored as hell, and if they see some hot girl they start talking to each other on their headsets and they’ll put the spotlight on her again and again. I’ve been with the crew at shows where they let me tell jokes on there so I know all about it.
After the concert we had to wait in the little After-Show Pass line. Then the local promoter took me backstage to the “Meet and Greet” room. The band comes in, and the bass player points right at me.
“Hey, you’re that girl who was dancing way up there in the balcony,” he yells. “We could all see you – you were dancing your ass off!”
A bunch of roadies from the Iron Maiden tour were also hanging around backstage. They had a day off so they‘d all decided to come see Alice. It was like a family frickin’ reunion.
The star of the show, though, was nowhere to be seen. “So where’s Alice?” I asked.
“He’s around somewhere,” one of the musicians said. “Hey, Dot. You know something about a place called the Kit-Kat Club?”
I gave a huge sigh. “Yeah, I know something about it.”
The Kit-Kat Club is a place that people outside of Europe probably could not even fathom. It’s this huge, extreme fetish club where you have to expose some skin or wear a fetish outfit to get through the door.
“I was there exactly once,” I said.
And it’s the truth. The biggest TV station in Germany wanted my opinion of the place so I agreed to do an interview there. I was not exactly excited about it, because I’d heard that people actually have sex in there and you can watch – and the prude New Englander in me came right out.
So I went there and did my ten-minute interview and left. Of course, every person I’ve met in Germany since then had to see that interview. I don’t want to be associated with that club, but it’s impressive how long people remember something they saw for a few minutes on TV.
While the band was trying to convince me to take them to the Kit-Kat Club, the Twins came up and said the magic words: “Come on, Dot. We’re going to go do the meet and greet!”
I followed them outside and straight onto the bus. It was the tidiest, neatest tour bus I’ve ever seen. – and I’ve seen a lot. I could not believe it. We walked in and there’s Alice sitting with these white leather golf shoes on. He has black, shaggy hair, and he looks exactly the same in person as he does onstage or on TV. He looks wild.
I sat down next to him. I didn’t even want to massage him; I didn’t care if I got my hands on him or not. Just to get in the same little tiny cubic area with him, to share the same oxygen with Alice Cooper and tell him what I think of him. It’s worth all the shit it took to get there.
“I’m Dot.”
“Hi, Dot.” He gave me his full attention. Another secret gentleman, a sheep in wolf’s clothing, you know?
“Alice, the last time I saw you in concert was in 1980, in Providence, Rhode Island.”
“No way!” he said. “You can’t be that old.”
“I was a little kid,” I said. “My parents brought me. You were wearing this big-ass black jockstrap with silver studs all around it.”
A mock-evil grin crossed his face and Alice looked twenty years younger. “Yeah,” he laughed. “I remember that.”
“I was a huge fan,” I said. “I used to steal Alice Cooper albums from fuckin’ Sears when I was a kid because my parents wouldn’t buy them for me!”
He was very funny. He said he was going to play golf in the morning, so he wouldn’t be going out with the rest of the band.
“No Kit-Kat Club?” I asked, putting on an innocent smile.
“No, not for me. I’m a happily married man with a bunch of kids. Actually, my whole family is in Europe right now. My son’s at school in Spain, one of my daughters is studying dance in London, and you saw the other daughter in my show.”
“Really?” The only female I could remember seeing was this girl in a black patent leather cat suit. It was wicked tight, and she had one of those weird fetish masks over her face. Just little holes for her eyes and nose. And she had this big whip that she kept cracking. I think the song was called “Go to Hell.”
At the climax of the song, Alice climbs up the stairs to the little go-go cage she’s in, grabs the whip out of her hand, whips her and then kicks her off the stage. She must have fallen onto a mattress or something. He kicked her right in the butt, “Go to hell!”
“Wait a minute,” I said. “You mean the girl in the cat suit …” “That was my daughter.” “Whoa, what a family!” I was laughing my ass off.
A walk on the WILD SIDE: The Kit Kat Club in Berlin
I said goodbye to Alice, and I’m sure I had the hugest smile on my face when I went back to see what the band was up to. While I was gone, they had all decided that Satu and I would be taking them to the Kit-Kat Club.
They went to their hotel to get changed, and we scrambled to my house as fast as possible to put on the naughtiest clothes we could find. You can’t even get in the door if you aren’t dressed up in an S&M or fetish outfit. I knew that if I wore my Dr. Dot costume – a short, low-cut, tight-fitting nurses uniform – like I had done for the TV interview, I would get in free. Just by coincidence, I had just bought this new one made of white, shiny latex. It’s wicked tight, all the way down to my knees. I can’t even fit underwear under it, okay? It’s so tight.
I wore my Dr. Dot hat and I these Pamela Anderson fuck-me pumps. White, shiny leather stilettos with very skinny heels. They could go right through the heart of a man if you stood on his chest. Satu put on one of my black, shiny latex dresses that was also extremely tight – we could both barely breathe. And we rushed over to the band’s hotel.
We went to the lounge area and I had to hide from the concierge. They call me all the time to massage normal clients, and I come prancing in looking like “shiny dominatrix Dr. Dot”! We got to the bar as fast as possible, and there was the whole band sitting around making fun of the piano player. Not because he was blind, but because he was murdering every Beatles song that he sang.
He didn’t even know the words. He obviously didn’t understand English and just kept making it up. “Sergeant Pepper’s lolly lolly pan, oh yeah …” ’We were like, “Let’s get the hell out of here!”
When we arrived at the club, I walked up to the door looking like Peg Bundy with these shoes on.
“Is it cool if I bring Alice Cooper’s band in here?” I asked.
“Hell, yeah,” the doorman said. “They can all come in free, Dr. Dot!”
So we all went in, and the band was ripping their clothes off as soon as they got in the door. We went upstairs to the bar and the band was immediately pissed off because the bartenders were so slow.
“Welcome to Germany!” I shouted, laughing. Good luck getting served!
While we were all standing there getting annoyed, I turned around to see this ugly little bald guy wearing a Kit-Kat Club T-shirt and staring at me. It took me a second to realize that he had his dick out and he was masturbating.
At this point, there were two things I couldn’t believe. One, that this guy was playing with his dick. And two, that people were just walking by him and not going, “Oh my god, that guy’s playing with his dick!” I started wondering what I had gotten myself into. We finally got our drinks, and I whispered to Satu, “Let’s just keep moving so nobody can touch us, okay?”
We made our way into the main room. It was this giant hall, booming with techno music and half the people dancing were completely naked. Really. Nothing on. Men and women. And most of the women, by the way – I’m sorry to pop anybody’s little fantasy – they were ugly. And you can only imagine that they have to go to places like the Kit-Kat Club to get any kind of attention because they’re not going to get it anywhere else. It was making me sad.
At some point I realized that something was happening in the back of the room, where there was a big, lighted stage.
‘Oh, there must be a live act now,” I said to Satu. “Let’s check it out.”
Then these three girls came out, basically naked. Except one of them had on a witch’s hat and wooden clothespins clamped onto her nipples. Those old wooden clothespins. It hurt to look at her. None of them had great bodies or anything, but they were naked as hell. Then the witch stood with her legs open and one of the girls did the limbo under her. The other girl started to limbo, too, but when she got halfway through, the witch girl started peeing on her. The girl on the bottom was so happy and started rubbing the pee all over her body. Then they all started trading places and peeing on each other.
That was it for me. “I’m fucking leaving,” I told Satu. “Give me the wardrobe ticket because I can’t take any more of this.” She was busy kissing one of the band members – maybe the peeing situation was turning them on, I don’t know. I didn’t want to interrupt their romantic moment, but there was no way I was staying there a minute longer.
Just to be perfectly clear, no matter what you might think of him from his public persona, Alice Cooper did not go to the Kit-Kat Club. He didn’t want anything to do with the Kit-Kat Club; he was never anywhere near the Kit-Kat Club. He was smart enough to go home and sleep so he could be ready for a day of golf and the next night’s show in the next city.
“I used to be such a sweet, sweet thing
Until they got a hold of me
I opened doors for little old ladies
I helped the blind to see
I got no friends ’cause they read the papers
They can’t be seen with me and I’m getting shot down
And I’m feeling mean
No more Mister Nice Guy
No more Mister Clean
No more Mister Nice Guy” Alice Cooper